For centuries now, journalists have braved death, violence and fear to bring readers the truth. War correspondents fighting alongside troops all over the world, undercover hacks infiltrating the sordid underbelly of global vice, and honest reporters killed by police brutality in oppressive police states: I now join their ranks, because there is a very real danger that my housemates will kill me in my sleep if they find out I am telling the whole entire internet about our local restaurants.

However, it is a price I am willing to pay, as I feel the world needs to know about the genius that is La Bonne Humeur. A hangover from a bygone age, its cheerful window, which proclaims it ‘Frituur’ status with pride, is a touch of classic Belgium amongst the multi-cultural patchwork of kebabberies, afro hair shops, Polish delis and Italian restaurants which make up the Chausée de Louvain.

On entering, you are transported back though time. Faded posters of North Sea fish adorn the pine-clad walls, along with certificates declaring the mussels to be Storm and Verbiest’s finest (Storm and Verbiest’s warehouse is all painted up to advertise their molluscy wares, and brightens up the train journey into Gare du Nord here no end, as well as sounding wonderfully like James Bond’s Universal Exports cover).

Even better, the chairs and tables are made out of that black formica with sort of white flecky tweed patterns on it. You’ll know it when you see it; I had a Pavlovian/Proustian moment of fear on my first visit, as I clearly remember bumping my head on a table made of said formica when I was about five at some long-forgotten relative’s house, then sulking in their garden afterwards. I’d like to tell you I gouged a piece of the offending plastic out from under the table in long-awaited revenge, but the Princess doesn’t hold grudges. Against furniture.

Enough of the decor, however. Once you are comfortably ensconced – or squished in if it’s the weekend – the nicest, friendliest lady in the whole of Belgium comes and takes your order. Impeccably turned out in chenille knits and gold jewellery, she is patient and ready to advise you, and, as far as I can see, speaks every language known to man. Orders placed, your beer – or muscadet – magically arrives and you can begin to psyche yourself up for the imminent moule-munching mission.

On a recent visit, my lovely friends T and H from London ordered starters too. Initially shocked, I soon came round to their way of thinking and got some croquettes. Croquettes are très Belge. Done badly, they are a Findus crispy pancake’s bastard offspring, a sad combination of industrial fats and sawdust breadcrumbs. However, done well – which they are at la Bonne Humeur – the crunchy outside gives a teasingly textural embrace to your tastebuds before you bite into the gooey middle. There, the cheesy meltiness is pleasingly offset by a more grainy, potatoey backbone, with the whole ‘squishy’ concept subtly twisted by the addition of prawns, which in turn have actual flavour and provide delightful bubbles of difference to the rest of the package. Very nice.

T and H had mussels and oysters, until we told T the oysters were alive, and then he didn’t want to eat them any more, so we did.

Next I had moules a l’escargot. They are not actually with snails; rather they are slathered in copious amounts of garlic, parsley and butter, in the same manner as their land-dwelling cousins. Lots of Belgian foods are confusingly named in this fashion. Imagine my horror when I found out Steak Americain doesn’t have ANY Americans in it – it’s just made of cow!

My moules – just the kilogram, I’m on a diet – arrived in a huge black pot, covered in garlic and celery oil and garlic. I love mussels. Sometimes when I’m bored and staring into the middle distance I try to decide whether they’re nicest on the North coast of France or here in Belgium, and I think it’s a mystery I’ll never resolve. Verbiest and Storm had been hard at work finding the fattest bivalves (I think they’re bivalves, biologists feel free to correct me) they could and I finished my whole pot. Sadly I could not eat all my chips, which was a shame, given they were lovely and golden and crispy – and had that tell-tale, old-school flavour of being cooked in beef dripping.